The Last Forever (7 page)

Good,
I’d said.

Unless maybe I can put it in the passenger seat so I can fake a ride in the carpool lane,
she said.

To be honest, I never really believed in death. I knew in my logical mind that it existed, but it seemed more like an idea than something real. I still sometimes feel that way. Because it’s unfathomable that she’s actually gone-gone. The sheets she folded are still in the linen closet, and her writing is in our address book, and she’s the one I talk to when something goes wrong or right. A half-eaten pack of her mints is in the ashtray of her (my) car. Sometimes I catch myself thinking that she’s just away and will be back. I’m even sort of calmly sure about the whole thing. And then it hits me—the forever of it—and each and every time that happens, there’s a gut-sinking twist of shock. I am felled all over again.
Where
did she go? That’s what I don’t understand. I have no idea. I just want her back.

The bell I hear now—it’s actually a phone. It’s funny, but a ringing phone doesn’t usually sound like a ringing phone anymore. Phones sound like jazz riffs or steel drums or chirping birds, but not bells. I can hear Jenny downstairs talking. I leap up, because I know it’s my father.

I throw on my robe, and I rush downstairs, and I’m rude to Vito, who’s excited to see me. I ignore his wagging and jumping. Jenny’s wearing this great floaty robe with huge dragonflies on it. The phone has been hung up. It hangs on the wall. It has one of those curly wires. Grandma Jenny hasn’t yet discovered the freedom of not having to talk while being attached
to the wall by an electrical umbilical cord. But look. She’s got a package of bacon in her hands. Someone’s told her all my favorite foods.

“Someone’s told you all my favorite foods,” I say. “Bread, bacon, fried chicken.”

“They’re all
my
favorite foods,” she says. “Thank God I’ve got a good metabolism.”

“What did he have to say for himself?” I ask.

“Do you want coffee?”

I shake my head. I don’t drink coffee. But I like that she asks.

“He said his phone died. He called with a number to reach him.”

I am so relieved that I could laugh and cry at the same time. Maybe Dad wasn’t ignoring my calls. Maybe he just couldn’t answer. Maybe he didn’t even know I’d been trying to reach him all night. I think all those crazy maybes. When someone ditches you—ditches you, leaves you, dies, whatever—you’re always stuck with the crazy maybes. That’s
another
thing I learned. All those maybes are just hope looking for a place to land. Every maybe is Maybe They Love Me After All. Oh, it’s pathetic, that mind game of misplaced faith that you play when you’ve been left.

“When’s he coming back?”

“He said a week.”

“Wait, what? A week now? I thought you said a few days.”

“Tess.”

I can’t help it. I start pacing again. I want to throw something. She’s getting the wrong idea about me, because I’m not the run-off-mad type or the throw-something type. I get upset when I see strangers arguing. I can’t handle aggressive talk radio, or TV talent shows where someone gets told how bad they are, or animal programs where the tiger is about to overtake the injured okapi.

I’m furious. But fury and devastation are fraternal twins. They may not look alike, but they’re made up of exactly the same stuff. I want to cry.

“What can I do?” Jenny says. “Do you want to go back home? Stay with a friend? I’ll take you. I’ll do whatever you think is best. But I’d really like to have you here. I would, Tess. We have lost years to make up for. We can
use
this. As a chance to get to know each other, right? Yes? A few days? A week? And, you know, maybe you need a rest too.”

The word “rest” is so beautiful that I want to fall down on my knees and lay my head right on it.

“He . . .” My voice is hoarse. Her eyes are kind, and she’s got bacon, and she said the word “rest.” I almost want to tell her everything. I want to tell her I hadn’t slept in weeks. I want to tell her how sad things are at home. I want to tell her what keeps going around and around in my head, even the thing I am most guilty of. But I can’t. And I can’t manage to speak the worst thing:
He didn’t even say good-bye.

The
He
just floats around in the air until Jenny finishes my sentence for me. “He’s an ass,” she says. It’s not quite where I
was headed, but I like her direction better. “He’s my son, and I love him, but sometimes he’s as selfish as a dog. Wait. My apologies to you, Vito. That was unfair.”

I look at Vito, with his white whiskers and sincere brown eyes. “
Vito
has better morals,” I say.

“I don’t know about that,” Jenny says. “You can’t trust him for five minutes.”

Vito keeps looking at me with those sweet eyes. “Vito has a soul,” I try instead.

“Indeed he does,” Jenny says.

*  *  *

“I have absolutely no artistic ability,” I tell her.

“Well, so be it. You can watch if you want, but it’d be nice to have you join in.”

I’ve declined Jenny’s offer of her car keys, which she dangled from her index finger, in favor of staying around while she gives her art lesson. I’m not
uninterested
in exploring this island. It’s just that the little inner manipulator that is in all of us (I hope it is in all of us) is moving the pieces around in my head, plotting and scheming like an evil queen. Elijah—I’ve remembered his name now—might come to this lesson, and if he comes, maybe his friend Henry will too.

If there’s an inner manipulator in all of us, though, there’s also his or her greatest enemy, the practical teacher’s pet, the sensible doubter, who’s generally a pain in the neck and ruins everything. I’m here for a week—it’s stupid to think I’ll have some monumental connection with a guy I saw for two minutes.
I mean, get real. They all have their own lives here, and I’m just passing through to buy the
I HEART WHALES
T-shirt.

Still. Those eyes.

Fate shouts.

“Who’s in your class?” Oh, innocent me.

“Well, there’s Cora Lee, from the Theosophical Society . . .”

“The what?”

“Don’t ask. We’ve got a lot of woo-woo mystical stuff around here. Just be warned.”

“Hey, I can shake my chakras with the best of them.” I barely know the difference between Reiki and Rumi, but oh well. And if you gave me the choice between an organic carrot and a Big Mac, I’m going for three thousand calories of fat and salt all the way.

“Margaret MacKenzie, she’s a widow. President of the Parrish Island Garden Society. Joe Nevins. He and his brother, Jim, run the ferry terminal now that the Franciscan nuns have all retired or died. Are you sure you want to stick around? You should see your face.”

“No, I’m sure.” I wasn’t sure. Maybe this wasn’t even the class Elijah took.

“Nathan, he’s a sculptor. Likes to change it up. Elijah, he’s about your age. Parrish High. Incredibly talented.” Now we’re talking. “He comes to lessons with”—
yes, yes, yes!
—“his sister, Millicent.”

The film version plays in my head. We’re all driving somewhere in a convertible, laughing. Henry’s behind the wheel,
and I’m in the seat next to him. Elijah’s in the back, wearing his scarf, which is blowing in the wind, and Millicent—wait. Millicent is dressed like a pilgrim, or maybe someone Amish. A dark dress, a prissy mouth. She’s wearing a bonnet and sensible shoes.

“With a name like Millicent, she should have a bun,” I say.

“Oh no. She’s got blond hair down to here.” Jenny gestures to her shoulders. “She’s beautiful.”

Redo image. Henry is driving, and Millicent is beside him, wearing a body-hugging dress. I’m standing at the side of the road with my thumb out. They pass me by, not even seeing me through their chic sunglasses. I stop the film fast, before I start running after them and waving my arms.

“Oh,” I say.

“Looks aren’t everything,” Jenny says, which, thank you for the life advice, is something I already know. I try to determine if she means something by this, if she’s telling me something about Millicent or anyone else, me even, but she’s unfolding the legs of easels and setting up for her class, and I can’t see her face. She’s old, but she’s strong. She’s flinging those things up and whipping out large canvases from cupboards and hauling chairs.

“You need help?”

“Drag that stool over here? I like to keep the space clear for my own work, but it means hauling everything out each time.” She’s huffing a little. Hopefully, she doesn’t have a heart
attack or something. The funny thing is, every now and then, she does something that’s a little familiar. The way she tilts her head when she laughs, for example. It looks just like Dad. Or the way she sets her chin in her hand when she’s thinking. I’ve been so busy hating him that I forgot how much I love him. He hasn’t always been the father who ditched me on some strange island after my mother died, and he’s not just an irresponsible pot smoker who left it to me to take Mom to her appointments because it was
too intense
for him. He took me for long bike rides when I was a kid and set up a taste test between Ho Ho’s and Ding Dongs. He read me stories using all the voices and made us a blanket fort that took up most of the house, and later, he helped me with my history homework, because he loved that stuff.
His-story,
he’d said.
Or her story. Point is, it’s all great stories.
He took me to the bank to open my savings account, although I think Mom made him do that. He taught me how to change a tire.

“Who was Dad’s dad?” I ask. I don’t know why I’ve never stopped to wonder about this before. It’s like this whole side of the family didn’t exist. We never even really talked about any of these people, and it was one of those weird things that become so normal that you forget it’s weird. The question is out of my mouth before I consider whether it’s intrusive or not, but Jenny doesn’t even flinch. She just goes on taking jars and stuff out of cupboards and setting them on the long counter at the back of the studio.

“Maxfield Sedgewick. He left us when your dad was in kindergarten.”

“Oh,” I say. “That’s too bad.”

“I don’t know. What if it was a worse too bad if he stayed?”

I’m not sure how to reply, so I keep my mouth shut. “What’s that one?” I nod my head toward a large painting against the far wall. It’s as tall as me and twice as big across.

“What do you think it is?”

Great. Trick question, I’m sure. Abstract art and poetry—they always involve a trick question. Honestly, I don’t get it. I like those very realistic paintings that look like photographs, or novels that are so much like actual life that you feel understood. But poetry—all those wombs and leaves falling and oranges on plates—whatever. Same with modern art. Splotches you’re sure you could do yourself if someone gave you a couple of cans of Benjamin Moore and an afternoon.

I take a guess. “A tree.” I don’t want to be impolite. What I think is that it’s brown and green smears, but I kind of like it anyway.

“It
is
a tree. And ground. Earth, life, renewal, all that.”

“ ‘The Circle of Liiiife . . .’ ” I sing that Disney song.

She smiles. Does Dad’s head tilt. “Pretty much.”

“That’s no tree.” I point to a thin sheet of canvas rolled out across a small desk at the back of the room. It’s held flat by a glass paperweight and a cup of pens. The image is of two
faces, I think, nose to nose. Beautiful faces. A mirror image, anyway.

“That’s Elijah’s.”

It’s interesting and odd. But I don’t have much time to think about it. “I hear a car,” I say.

“They’re here. Do you mind running in and grabbing me a water bottle from the fridge?” she asks. “That bacon made me so thirsty.”

“No problem.”

I want to run back to the house anyway, do an Insecurity Check on my makeup. I’ve barely worn any since Dad and I started out on this trip, but the whole Henry hope-thing made me do it up this morning. Now I’m just nervous to see Elijah again and to meet Millicent. In spite of the fact that I’ve been rudely ignoring all calls from home, I’m actually excited to be with people my own age.

I dash upstairs, brush my teeth again. I run back down. I give the abandoned Vito, who’s lying on his hairy dog bed, a pat on his head. I grab a couple of water bottles from the fridge. I’m on my way out of the kitchen when I see it. A piece of paper. It’s got a phone number on it. Dad’s number. But there’s also a second number written there, under a name. I don’t know what I’d been thinking, because I’d imagined him at some log cabin or something, sleeping and getting high and staring at nature, I don’t know. Having time in the wilderness to think about what it means to lose my
mother and where we’d go from here. And so I now must add another member to the inner crew. There’s the manipulator, the teacher’s pet, and, let’s not forget, the utterly deluded big fat fool.

Mary
, the note says.

*  *  *

They are all painting wildflowers that Jenny has hastily shoved into a glass jar. It’s a painting class cliché. I want to elbow someone and crack up, but there’s no one. Mom would get this joke. I’m in this painting class cliché all by myself, and it gets worse, because I’m holding a brush. I’m sitting in front of an easel. I’m sitting in front of an easel with a big smeary splotch on it, made by yours truly. Sometimes you just have those moments when you wonder how in the hell you got where you are.

She looks over my shoulder. “Rule number one,” I tell Jenny. “Colors mixed together equal brown.”

“Just have fun with it,” she says.

“Fun is my middle name,” I say, which isn’t exactly true. I’m showing off a little for Elijah and Millicent, who are sitting next to each other, painting with concentrated expressions. Millicent held her hand out to shake mine when Elijah introduced us, same as he had, and now she is biting the end of her brush. She does have long blond hair and blue eyes and tiny, perfect features, and green shoes with little embroidered flowers, which means she has the money for green shoes with little embroidered flowers. She’s wearing a blue skirt and a red
T-shirt, and none of this sounds like it goes together, but it does. I never know how people manage to create those don’t-go-together outfits that actually do go together. When I try it, I look like I’ve been in a Marshalls dressing room during an explosion.